


surrender

by coerulus



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9296708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coerulus/pseuds/coerulus
Summary: Their eyelids slide shut; slowly, like honey melting from a spoon, and Katara’s lips are the first to part.He swallows.zuko ღ katara. [canon divergence from comics timeline]





	

**Author's Note:**

> set just a week or so after the war's end. endless thanks to @ineachandeveryway, who faithfully betas everything i read and puts up with my nonsense on a daily basis.

Zuko stares at mirrors. A lot.  

Sokka is the first one to pick up on this habit, and surreptitiously gifts him a drugstore package of hair extensions that are “so good, they’ll knock your Sokkas off!” and a reassuring,  _ manly  _ pat on the back.

Two days later, a handwritten note graciously thanks him for the extensions but promises he is not actually having as much of a ‘hairy situation’ as Sokka believes, and yes, he’s well aware of the fact that he kills animals  _ and _ the ladies at the same time.

_ But don’t worry _ , Sokka writes back to him,  _ you’re the Fire Lord. You’re already one hot piece of— _

“My Lord? You’re wanted by the Royal Seamstress. If you recall, you have an appointment to have new robes fitted.”

Zuko tears his gaze away from his reflection to look at his attendant and nod, slowly rising from the embroidered silk futon. The knot of hair digs into his scalp as he makes his way to the door and down the many winding red corridors to the seamstress.

“It does not become the new Fire Lord to be late to his appointments,” she scolds him, motioning for him to sit down. Stern eyes set in a thin, authoritative face silently berate him.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is thick and hoarse with not having spoken to anyone that day. She  _ tsks _ , and he shivers as the cold metal of the tape measure runs up and down his back.  Numbers detailing his height (1.8 meters), width of his shoulders (.61 meters), and inseam (.87 meters) rattle through one ear and out the other, and various different fabrics in every hue of red imaginable are draped over his outstretched arms and analyzed.

He lets out a tiny exhale of impatience.

“We are  _ not _ finished yet!” the seamstress snaps.

_ I can’t believe she heard that _ .  

The sun sinks steadily closer to the horizon outside his window. It almost touches before the seamstress says, “There! Your robes will be done very soon, My Lord.”

He nods to her. “Thank you. Your time and efforts are appreciated.” He shuts the door carefully behind him. He is just more than halfway down the corridor, facing the enormous double doors to the hallway, when his reflection halts him on his way to dinner. Or rather, not  _ his _ reflection.

His father’s.

The sudden feeling of having his lungs twisted comes up through his throat in a loud cough, which prompts three servants to immediately rush to his aid.

“I’m okay,” he says, waving them away.

_ Just your imagination _ , he reassures himself.  _ Not real. Just a weird eye trick. They’re gone. All gone. Nothing’s going to hurt you, and nothing’s going to hurt them either. _

At the thought of ‘them’, the scar on his abdomen throbs.

…

Dinner, of course, is delicious. He’s presented with a loaded plate—crispy duck and green onions with soft white steamed buns and oyster sauce, stir fried  _ gai lan _ , and noodles with bamboo shoots. He thanks the waiter, and she bows, leaving him to dine with the rest of his council.

“My lord?” one of them says. Zuko nods, indicating that he can continue speaking.

“In light of recent circumstances, the coronation ball held in your honor has, uh, not…taken place yet. If it pleases you, it would be our honor to stage it the following week.”

Tea suddenly rushes down his throat in one burning wave. “The following week?” he says, dabbing his streaming eyes with his napkin.

“I-if it pleases you, my lord,” the councilman stammers. “It can certainly be postponed to your liking.”

“No, no.” He folds his napkin back into its perfect triangle, the top corner darkened from his tears, and puts it back in his lap. “Very well. Do what you must.” He picks at the bits of thin, crisp duck skin on his plate, and one chopstick slips from his grip. He finishes the rest of his dinner, bows, and returns to his room.

_ Dear Sokka, _

_ Thanks for complimenting my butt, but I’m already aware. Anyway, there’s to be a coronation ball in my honor next week, and I’d love for you and your family to come. Bring your dad and your grandmother if they want, and of course, bring Katara. I’ll make sure you get the royal treatment around here. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Fire Lord Zuko _

_ … _

_ Dear Zukkcchini, _

_ Does the royal treatment include unlimited amounts of fire flakes and fire gummies? ‘Cause that would be sweeter than Gran-gran’s homemade cotton candy, and that stuff is sweeter than my—Katara said I can’t write that. But anyway, Dad and Gran-gran and Katara say they really want to come, so get ready to be immersed in full Southern Water Tribe AWESOMENESS! _

_ I mean, we’ll see you there. _

_ -Sokka, Sokka’s dad, Sokka’s sister, and Sokka’s Gran-gran _

_ … _

_ Dear Sokka, _

_ Don’t  _ **_ever_ ** _ nickname me after my least favorite vegetable ever again. Zucchinis are vile and my name does not deserve to be tarnished with this abomination. And I’m not sure about  _ **_unlimited_ ** _ supplies of fire flakes and fire gummies, but I’ll make sure the servants leave you some extra. I don’t know if I want to know what Katara wouldn’t let you write, but I’m glad you and the others can come. I’ll write to Aang and Suki, and I’ll find some way to let Toph know she’s invited, too. _

_ See you in a week. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Fire Lord Zuko _

_ … _

_ My dear Zukoconut, _

_ Man, your messenger hawks are fast and FURIOUS. Teach your komodo chicken not to bite! _

_ Calm down, hothead (I didn’t mean that just metaphorically, either). Coconuts are better than zucchinis, so this sticks. _

_ Katara STILL won’t let me write the thing, but I’m sure you know what I mean. We all do…It’s a feature you just can’t help but notice and immediately think ‘sweet’. _

_ We talked to Toph recently, but we didn’t know if she was going to be able to come, what with her new metalbending academy and whatnot. Don’t tell her this, because it’ll go straight to her teeny tiny little head, but that’s pretty sick, especially for a thirteen-year-old. And yeah, I’ll talk to Suki for you, but I’m sure she’ll want to go—she’ll see me again! She can’t possibly resist all this Sokka waiting for her. I thought Aang was with you? _

_ My seal blubber is burning out. Catch you later. _

_ -Sokka _

_ … _

_ For the record,  _ Zuko thinks in amusement before he goes to sleep,  _ the messenger hawks  _ **_are_ ** _ very speedy, and it would normally be considered extremely disrespectful to write to the Fire Lord in this fashion, but it’s Sokka _ . His good mood fades quickly though, as he brushes his shoulder length hair in the mirror before he goes to sleep. He has his mother’s softly pointed chin and eyes, but his sleek, black hair is distinctly, profoundly, unmistakably his father’s. Every fiber of it, from root to tip, screams of the previous Fire Lord. 

The brush falls from his hand and clatters on his drawer loudly as he presses his palms to his temples. His lead-lined lungs heave up and down in his chest, expanding to touch his ribs and then shrinking to two hard knots. Visions of blue-white lightning arc across the mirror’s surface and he stumbles back, kicking the stool away from him and clutching the bedpost.  

_ Not real. _

The door opens quietly, and a servant sticks her head in. “My lord? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he pants, pushing hair out of his eyes. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“My lord, if there’s anything I can do for you…”

“It’s fine. Please. Your help is not needed. Thank you.” She leaves silently, and Zuko runs one hand through his hair, messing it up. It falls back into place, too thick and straight to have any memory. He falls into bed, curling up into the fetal position, shivering beneath the thin, flimsy silk of his pajamas.

_ Everything’s going to be okay,  _ he chants to himself, drawing the covers up to his chin.  _ It’s alright. Everyone is safe. Aang and Suki will be here. Sokka will be here. Katara will be here. Father is gone. The Harmony Restoration Movement is underway. We’ll be alright. _

_ We’ll be alright. _

_ … _

The next few days flash by in a blur. Etiquette lessons are in order, even for the newly crowned Fire Lord, because he’s still sixteen and therefore still a child. More dress robe fittings, council meetings, politics, interviews, thumbprints stained with the ink of rushed letters all whoosh by in one apathetic stretch of time. 

Aang writes back quickly, expressing his feelings through a scrawled letter that gets progressively harder to decipher the more excited he gets. Suki writes back soon, too, the message of her letter containing her emotions a little better than Aang’s.

His hours are filled with dense talk and little else other than politics and his upcoming coronation ball—both topics have been sufficiently exhausted, in his opinion.

On the day of the actual ball, he wakes up just as a cold, purple sun rises from its home beneath the horizon. He is reminded of what to do and where to go, offered a variety of services (most of which he denies—some of these things, like a hot rock massage that lasts for four hours, are just too much for him today—and generally smothered by people all vying for his attention. He tolerates it, as royalty should, but goes through his day just slightly numbed to all the hustle in the palace.

Every time he catches sight of himself in any reflective surface—his plate, the polished floor, the mirrors—he instinctively seizes up and his muscles tighten.

Zuko has to remind himself his father isn’t looking back at him.

The worst part is when he’s getting into his robes and having his hair done—the same style his father wore it in, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. It’s like having generations of murderers looking at him, sizing him up and putting a price on his worth like he’s some kind of animal. When his stylists slide the gold pin into his bun, the metal scrapes cold against his scalp.

The sun burns a rich blood orange through his window. The sunset marks the decline in energy of the day, and far away, black silhouettes crawl up the stone roads towards the royal palace.

“The guests are arriving, my lord.” A servant bows and holds the door open for him.

“Thank you.” His heart skips a couple of beats at the thought of seeing Katara and the rest of his old friends.

As he heads out into the main hall, he stops every so often to talk to important people in the Fire Nation. Secretary of this, official of that, minister of these and those and everything in between…the crowd never ends.

Zuko has never been more relieved to hear a wolf whistle in his entire life.

“Whoo! Talk about fancy-schmancy!” Sokka strolls across the red carpet, all the guests giving him, Katara, Hakoda, and Kanna a wide berth. “There he is! His Royal Hotness, the head honcho himself.” He runs over and pounds Zuko on the back, and the Fire Lord winces, causing several of the palace staff to intervene. Zuko waves them all off, wheezing slightly.

“Ow! Please never become a chiropractor. I’m pretty sure you just misaligned my spine.” He pats Sokka on the back with much less force. “But it’s good to see you, too.” He bows to Hakoda, who claps him on the shoulder, and Kanna, who pats his cheek in a manner somewhat reminiscent of his mother. He decides to like her.

“Hey, Sifu Hotman.” Katara throws her arms around him and he hugs her tightly, just able to feel the gentle curves of her waist beneath the thick layer of Water Tribe furs. “It’s good to see you again. We missed you.”

“Hi, Katara,” he murmurs into her shoulder. He buries his nose into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. “I missed you guys too. You, uh…you look nice.” He straightens up to properly admire her. Her nut brown skin glows under the warm light of the chandeliers, and her long hair cascades in lush curls down her back. He fights down a hot blush on his cheeks, and, well, there’s a thrill and a warmth every damn time he looks at her, so he eventually stops fighting it. He’ll just attribute his flushed skin tone to some unusually warm air, or something like that.

“Thanks,” she says, beaming. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”

A set of double doors bang open on the other side, and dozens of servants bearing huge platters of food walk out and disperse themselves among the crowd. Fish, roast duck, noodles, and an assortment of other dishes are passed out to the guests.

“Please, help yourselves. There’s plenty to eat.” Zuko watches as Sokka zooms past him, commenting “don’t have to tell me twice” and begins loading his plate with everything in sight. Katara laughs, and the rush of warmth it sends through Zuko reminds him of how much he missed hearing the sound, even craved it, in the time she’s been gone.

“Avatar Aang!”

The flow of the crowd suddenly reverses and parts down the center to reveal the airbender, lemur still perched on his shoulder. His golden Air Acolyte robes trail behind him gracefully and he waves modestly to the crowd as they applaud him.

“Zuko! Katara!” Aang catches sight of him and runs to embrace the Fire Lord, Zuko stooping down to match Aang’s 1.6 meters. “Am I still allowed to call you that?”

“Of course. What else would you call me?”

“I dunno. My lord, Your Royal Hotness?”

“Sokka already tried that one,” Zuko laughs. “We’re friends, Aang. I don’t care what you call me. Actually, as long as it isn’t ‘Zukkcchini’.”

“Let me guess. Sokka.”

“Wow, did I make it that obvious?” Zuko deadpans. He and Aang laugh. “Have you seen Suki?”

“She’s right behind you,” she says. “Hi Zuko, Aang, Katara.”

“There’s my favorite warrior girlfriend!” Sokka proclaims, shoving his plate of food into his sister’s unwitting hands to kiss Suki.

“Favorite?” Katara teases. “That implies you have more than one warrior girlfriend. Better be careful, Suki.” The other girl blushes, shaking her head as she returns Sokka’s kiss.

“May I offer you a drink, my lords and ladies?” A busboy comes over and bows, but Zuko shakes his head.

“No, thank you. Everyone else is underage,” he says, trying to wave him off before Sokka can grab a glass. 

“You’re no fun,” Sokka complains,pouting.

Zuko shrugs. “I heard what you were like on the cactus juice. I figured alcohol would do the same thing.”

Katara nods in agreement. “We couldn’t have you trying to ally yourself with any more giant ‘friendly’ mushrooms. Who knows what would happen after a few drinks?” Sokka grumbles in Zuko’s general direction.

“Why couldn’t Toph come tonight?” Zuko asks, steering the conversation away from Sokka’s hypothetically low alcohol tolerance. “She should be here.”

“She’s having a lot of success with her metalbending academy,” Katara explains, accepting an octopus fritter from a passing busboy. “She’s got so many students now. People from all over the world are coming to Yu Dao to be trained by her, and some are sending their kids just for that purpose. She would have loved to come, though.” She punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Pretend I did that harder, for Toph.” He laughs.

Someone taps a pair of chopsticks against a polished plate, calling for everyone’s attention.

It certainly catches Zuko’s.

It’s as if every nerve in his body has suddenly gone stiff—there’s no oxygen in his veins, like all the blood that used to be there was replaced by cyanide. The room is too small, the air is simultaneously too thick and too thin, and the jagged scar on his eye and stomach begin to throb again.

“Zuko?” From somewhere very far away, Katara’s thin voice floats towards him. “Zuko, are you alright?”

The muscles in his hand curl into a tight, tense fist. Through his blurry peripheral vision, Katara’s face swims into view, and he’s vaguely aware of the coolness of her hand on his wrist.

“…and may his reign be long and true. To Fire Lord Zuko!” The toast echoes endlessly around the emptiness in his head and bounces off the palace pillars as everyone repeats the words. Bewildered, Zuko fakes a smile and a modest laugh, and waves to the crowd like he’s some sort of attraction on a parade.  

“Th—thank you,” he says shakily, blinking rapidly. “It is my hope that I will be able to restore peace, harmony, and kindness to the world. I will do everything in my power to ensure security and stability in the lives of all those who have been affected by the war. Thank you all for giving me a chance to restore honor to the Fire Nation. I won’t let you down.” Thunderous applause roars through the room, and he has a sudden feeling of lightheadedness. Not the sort of lightheadedness that means you’re going to faint, but the sort that leaves you drained of energy, dazed and confused but still pushing on against the riptide.

He’s now very aware of Katara’s hand on his shoulder and her anxious expression, but he tries to laugh it off and gently brushes her hand away.

But she knows better.

Katara knows the human body. She’s seen it in Yugoda’s healing huts countless times, and she knows all the warning signs of…everything, really. So she knows that Zuko’s paler-than-usual skin is bordering on passing out, the cold dampness means severe anxiety, and his chi is impressively out of balance. But she knows Zuko beyond the simple flesh level. She knows him down to the marrow in his bones.

She knows every single electric nerve crackling in his body. 

“Zuko. You need to tell me what’s going on,  _ now _ .” He doesn’t listen though, and even though Katara knows the smile that lights up his eyes is fake and strained, he keeps pretending to absorb all of the applause he’s receiving. As royalty should, of course, but right now, Katara has  _ Zuko’s  _ best interests at heart, not the Fire Lord’s.

“What’s wrong?” Suki asks, anxiety furrowing her perfectly arched brows. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t think so,” Katara says in a hushed voice. She turns away from him to face Suki. “Something’s bothering him, but he won’t admit it. I’m…I’m kind of worried about him, to be honest. He seems so stressed out, even for the newly crowned Fire Lord.”

“He doesn’t seem to be himself,” Suki admits. “If you ask me, he hasn’t been the same since the war ended. I think it hurt him harder than it did us. Not that it didn’t hurt you, of course.”

“Yeah,” Katara says, turning her eyes to the floor and the rich red carpeting. She scuffs a bit of it with her shoe, and the plushness gives way to her foot easily. “I’ll try to talk to him.”

“Are you sure? I can tell you’re tired. I can do it, if you’re not feeling well.”

“It’s okay. It’s probably just me; I mean, look at Sokka.” The aforementioned sibling practically bounces from person to person, occasionally rolling up a sleeve to give a visual and demonstration of his internationally acclaimed biceps.

“Does he always do that?” Suki asks, a laugh tugging at her lips. “I thought I was special.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but yeah.” Eventually, Sokka makes his way back to the crowd (a little dizzily, but  _ no, Katara, I’m not drunk, I just have some hiccups _ ) and whisks Suki away, his arms around her shoulders and his face disappearing into her chestnut hair.

There’s a large hand on her shoulder then, and Katara turns around to face her father, who smiles down at her. “Katara, are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah,” she says heavily, but she’s never been a good liar. If Toph had been there, she would have stood on her tiptoes, put her face next to Katara’s, and told her she knew she was lying. “It’s Zuko. I’m worried about him.”

“You have always been a good observlistener,” Hakoda says. Katara looks at him, confused—where is he going with this?

“You should talk to him,” he continues. “If you listen to him, he will tell you everything. He’s not as different as you think he might be.”

A light flashes in Katara’s periphery. She catches Zuko beaming alongside Aang, undoubtedly for the paparazzi. Tomorrow’s paper will have his face slapped on the front cover with some flashy catchphrase that doesn’t suit him.

“Now?” she asks.

“Maybe later. But Katara, you have a gift for listening to people. Sometimes, we don’t need advice or anecdotes. Sometimes, we just need a comforting shoulder to lean our heads against and tell our story to.” Hakoda pats her back and walks away to help Kanna pour a cup of tea.

Katara looks down and rubs a bit of the fur lining the wrist of her coat between her fingers, then frowns slightly. A small dimple shows beneath one corner of her mouth as she mulls over her father’s words.

She thinks back to a different world. A world where the walls are crystals buried underground and everything is a pale, dusty green set amongst black ore. Back to the cave where she met him,  _ really, truly  _ met him, with his scraggly, dusty hair and tattered robes. It is in this life, one she lived just a month and a half ago, that her fingertips met dull red scar tissue and began to coax a boy from out of a pile of ashes. And if she did it then, damned if she can’t do it now.

“Are you okay?”

Startled, Katara whirls around to find herself nose to nose, or rather, nose to shoulder, with none other than the Fire Lord himself.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” Katara says defiantly. “In fact, I did!”

Zuko angles his face downward and away from her. The whitish light pouring down on him accentuates the sharp plane of his jaw and deepens the grooves of his red scar. His hair shines, having been harshly scraped back and set in place with the gold pin bearing the Fire Nation insignia. Shame, mingled with confusion, darkens his face.

“Zuko…”

His teeth capture the skin of his bottom lip. A thin wisp of air moves from his mouth.

Katara’s eyes study him, like jewels set in dimly lit caves. They roam around his face, searching,  _ scouring _ its surface, analyzing which emotions lie in the thin, premature wrinkles beneath his eyes and within the tightness of his lips.

Her small, brown hand slips beneath the wide silk sleeve of Zuko’s robe and laces her fingers between his, squeezing gently. He notices they’re cool, but not in an uncomfortable manner—cool in temperature, but with warmth running beneath the surface, like the lake when its surface is capped in ice.

But he still slips away, his fingers leaving hers like silk that falls from your hands when you pick it up. Throngs of people crowd around him, begging for a few moments of his time, or to hold his hand, or to ask him to kiss their child’s forehead and bless them with good fortune and health. As royalty, he graciously obliges, but it’s clear that he needs to be alone for a while, a long while.

“But my lord,” one of the guests protests, “the dancing has not yet even begun.” It’s true. The musicians are just starting to unpack their instruments and tune them onstage.

With all the noble grace three generations of Fire Lords have to offer, Zuko manages to politely excuse himself and melt away into the black and red shadows of the palace, despite his duties to the people. Someone will notice and ask, but right now, that isn’t his concern. There are hundreds of rooms within the palace; he’s confident nobody will find him.

Zuko, like Aang, may not be able to disappear without people crowding around him, but Katara, who isn’t quite as involved in politics (yet) as either of them are, is more than capable. Aang remains trapped in social throes, her father and Gran-Gran are off eating and making small talk, and Sokka and Suki—well, she doesn’t even want to think about what  _ they’re _ doing.

She glides through the crowd easily, following the general direction she saw Zuko go in.

The corridor is lined with identical doors on each side and they’re all closed, leaving no trace of him. Wishing Toph was here to stomp her foot and locate Zuko for her, Katara presses her ear against the crack of every door, listening for the telltale rustle of silk that will indicate his presence.

Toph’s senses aren’t the only ones who have been fine tuned, though. Outstretching her arm, Katara senses for the presence of extra water, where Zuko might be. Beads of water in the air brush against her sensitive fingertips, and she closes her eyes, willing her hands to push their way through space and find him. With her hands pressed to the walls, she can feel a vague mass of water about Zuko’s size.

Her senses lead her straight to a 15 foot tall painting of the previous Fire Lord.

The photorealistic detail sends spikes of ice into her veins, and before she knows it, her fingers catch on the mouth of her water skin before her heart rate slows and her brain registers that it’s just a painting. Not real.

And, according to her hands, Zuko is right behind this painting. Her fingers curl tentatively around the painting’s frame, and it moves just a tiny bit forward. Pulling harder on the frame rewards her with the sight of a room behind her. A room thankfully occupied by the current reigning Fire Lord.

His face first registers shock, and a concentrated ball of flame explodes from his palm before he extinguishes it, noting her dark brown skin and hair. Zuko glides over and stares at the girl incredulously. Her eyes speak of calmness and healing, not anger and disappointment.

“How did you find me?” he rasps as Katara climbs through the painting hole and carefully latches it shut. “I thought…”

“I have my ways,” she says simply, taking in the room. Like all the other rooms in the palace, there is red everywhere; everything is startlingly crimson, occasionally trimmed in gold or black. However, this one is mostly empty, with just a few small chairs and a teakwood coffee table that bears the Fire Nation insignia.

“Why’d you come?” Zuko croaks out. His face remains remarkably neutral even if his voice doesn’t. Off to the side, the heavy gold shoulder collar stands upright, along with his gold pin, letting his long hair flow freely.

“I know something’s bothering you,” Katara says softly, sitting next to him. The space between them is friendly, a few inches away, and their shoulders don’t touch against the wall. Hesitantly, she places her hand on his shoulder blades. He doesn’t flinch; actually, he relaxes at the healer’s touch. It’s been years since Zuko has not only permitted, but felt comfortable with people touching him. “Tell me, Zuko.”

A puff of steam blooms from his lips. “It’s my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not here anymore,” Katara reminds him gently. “Remember? He’s in jail, and he can’t bend anymore.”

“It’s not his physical self,” he says bitterly. He tucks his pointed chin into the hollow of his collarbone and clasps his hands together underneath the long silk sleeves. “Katara, do you know those horror stories you tell around a campfire, where you look into the mirror and you see something that isn’t yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s…it’s like that.” His muscles tense just thinking about it. “I don’t see me anymore. I see my father,” he says hoarsely. “I see him, and my grandfather, and his father.” Talking about it sends a rush of ice through his arteries. When Katara looks into his eyes, terror and confusion dominate the amber irises. His hand rises to touch his scar; cautiously, hesitantly, as if the wound is still fresh—and in some ways, it is.

“I see,” she says softly. “You’re afraid you’ll turn into them.”

Chandelier light drips off the edge of his jaw, pooling in the valleys of silk his hands create. “Yes. It’s been my biggest fear ever since I made the decision to join you.”

They absorb each others’ presence in the white silence that follows, just the two of them sitting on the silk-upholstered sofa. All royal etiquette forgotten, his shoulders curl forward with his head tucked in, painfully reminiscent of the caves in Ba Sing Se.

“You’re a great leader,” Katara says suddenly, and he looks up, confused. “Your father and your grandfather, they never showed the marks of a true leader. You have compassion and empathy. You would sacrifice everything for your people. They would sacrifice their people for themselves.”

The music from the ballroom floats softly into the room, wrapping itself around Zuko’s mind. “You don’t understand,” he whispers, turning away from her in pain. “I was a murderer, just like them. Even if I didn’t personally kill anyone, there are people dead because of  _ my _ actions. That makes me a killer. Katara, what if I fall backwards? What could I do to you if I did? It’s like my reflection’s taunting me…like it’s daring me to not become one of them, just the next murderer in line for the throne.”

“But you won’t,” Katara says gently. “You’re kind, and brave, and selfless. You are everything they weren’t.”

“But what if I do?” Zuko persists. “I could never forgive myself if I did.”

She places her hand on his shoulder and looks at him. “If you fall, then we’ll be here to catch you.”

Their eyelids slide shut; slowly, like honey melting from a spoon, and Katara’s lips are the first to part. 

He swallows.

The kiss tastes of her—tender, sweet, hopeful. He finds solace etched into the curves of her lips, and in his, she finds home.  

Zuko exhales. Katara buries her head in the warm curve of his neck and he pulls her closer, every inch of her body pressing against his, like he might never see her again. She fits perfectly in all of his hard angles and stiff limbs, he thinks, closing his eyes and letting the scent of her hair wash over him. They sit together, listening to the pattern of each other’s breathing.

“The music is nice,” she whispers after a while. The dainty rhythm of a waltz floats through the walls.

Zuko brushes his fingers over her knuckles. “It is.” His breathing is warm, low, and steady against her forehead, like a second heartbeat.

The high, melodious notes of the  _ èrhú _ catch his attention. The tune of ‘The Butterfly Lovers’ lilts its melancholic tune through the painting. He gets up, smoothes his robes, and extends his hand to a surprised Katara.

“Dance with me?” he asks softly. His piercing golden eyes suddenly grow round and boyish, almost shy.

She takes his hand. “Of course.”

His hands slip around her waist and his lips somehow end up just a breath away from her temple. She places her hands on his arms and leans in close, cheek pressed up against his collarbone, breathing softly. Her fingers lace together on the back of his neck. Through the thin fabric, Zuko’s heartbeat thrums, warm and steady.   

His gentle fingers shift up and down the curves of her waist and linger on the rise of her hips, moving slowly to the  _ erhu  _ playing in the ballroom. In this moment, he is acutely aware of the fine details—the slope of her shoulders, the slight divot in the base of her throat, the glow of her dark skin engulfed in light. His fingers tighten around her, trying to commit everything—her scent, her shape, the rhythm of her heartbeat—to memory.

“I have a question,” he murmurs into her thick, dark curls.

“Yeah?”

“How did you know where to look for me?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, just presses herself against him, locking their bodies together.

“I don’t know,” she admits after a long silence. “I guess…I just followed my heart. And it took me to you.” The statement is short and simple but stirs an inexplicable rush of warmth from the scar on his abdomen.

“To me,” he repeats softly.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he whispers, cupping her face with one hand. Gently,  _ so _ , so gently, his hand moves past her cheek to the back of her head, and he leans closer, eyes closed.

The second time, it tastes like longing for an oasis nestled away in a corner of fantasy, and the relief of finding it is inexplicable. He remembers the feeling of safety, of comfort.  _ Home. _ Home is not the palace, but the feeling of dark curls spilling through his fingers, the firm pressure of her lips on his skin, two hearts entwined and beating as a single entity.

He pulls away first, reluctantly, leaving her bewildered and slightly confused. “I should go,” he says quietly. “My people are out there, waiting for me.”

Katara’s hand is soft on his jaw, fingers just brushing the edge of his scar. “Don’t go,” she suggests. “Stay with me. They can wait a few more minutes.”

Zuko glances at the shoulder collar on the coffee table. He does have a duty to his people; he knows that. But, like Uncle said, the duty to his heart is equally important.

She stands there beneath the chandelier, in full dark blue and white fur-trimmed regalia, light scattering through her hair like diamonds. Keen blue eyes sparkle at him from behind a fringe of black lashes.

“Stay,” she coaxes softly.

His eyes flicker from her to the collar and back, and he slides his hand around her waist once more.

“Okay.”   

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!! if you enjoyed, please please please leave a kudos and a comment!!


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